


laugh the loudest

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Canon Divergent, Future Fic (Partial), Gen, Implied Stozier, M/M, Purple-ish Prose, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 17:50:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12612056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: Her lips are moving and he knows she’s speaking but the blood rushing in his ears drowns her out.





	laugh the loudest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cathect](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathect/gifts).



> heed the tags/warnings, they're there for a reason!
> 
> dedicated, as always, to hannah. this time i'm actually gifting it to her, tho, bc she is the one who inadvertently gave me the idea for all this pain. 
> 
> enjoy!

“What?”

Stan looks up from his homework to where his mother stands at the phone. She’s close to the wall with the receiver clenched tight in one hand. Stan can see her knuckles turning white with the force of her hold, and wonders what the other half of the conversation is like. He turns back to his homework and scribbles out an answer, until—

“Oh, god,” she continues, and slaps a delicate hand over her mouth.

Stan sets down his pencil and watches his mother unabashed. His dad comes in and gestures to Mrs. Uris, and Stan only shrugs. His dad walks over and puts heavy hands on his mom’s shoulders, squeezes, and a little sob slips out of Mrs. Uris’ mouth.

Stan’s heart starts to pound.

“Is he—did they take him to the hospital?” His mom’s gaze flicks to him, and Stan is on his feet in an instant. She tries to usher him to sit again, but he won’t. Even when his dad looks at him sternly, Stan stays with his feet planted on the kitchen floor. “Oh, god,” she says again, voice weaker than before.

“What is it?” His dad asks softly, only for his mom to wave her hand.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” She asks. She nods along, hums thoughtfully, then sniffles. “I understand, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Tozier, for calling. I’ll…” She looks at Stan again. “I’ll tell Stanley.” After a brief goodbye, Mrs. Uris hangs up the phone.

Stan can’t breathe and he sways on his feet. His vision is going black around the edges and he doesn’t even know what happened, yet.

“What did Richie do?” Stan asks. He forces the words out and forces a laugh at the end. He waits for his mother to roll her eyes, like she always does. He waits for his dad to go, _“oh, that Tozier boy,”_ like he always does. He waits for Richie to come bursting through the back-kitchen door, like he always does.

“You should sit down, honey.” His mom pleads. “Donald, will you put on some tea?”

His dad doesn’t seem surprised by the request; then again, he was close enough he could probably hear the other half of the conversation. He wasn’t sitting in the dark the entire time, not like Stan.

Legs like lead, Stan falls back into his chair. While his dad grabs the kettle and bags of tea, his mom takes the seat beside him. She sits close and takes one of his hands in hers. The panic storming inside Stan’s chest worsens. It isn’t as though he and his family aren’t tactile, just not overly so. The last time his mom held his hand like this was because their housecat had died, when Stan was seven.

“What did Richie do?” Stan asks again, though his forced laugh mostly sounds like a pained sigh.

His mother sniffles and blinks away the wetness in her eyes. “Honey,” she says again. “Richie…” Her mouth works without saying anything, like she can’t find the words.

“Mom, please,” Stan asks softly.

“Richie is gone, honey.” She spits out the words in a rush. “It was suicide. His mother said…” But Stan doesn’t hear anything else his mother says. Her lips are moving and he knows she’s speaking but the blood rushing in his ears drowns her out. His dad comes over to the table with two steaming mugs and he’s talking too, but Stan can’t hear him either.

Stan slowly takes his hand back from his mother, and he can’t hear her upset whimper but he knows it happened all the same. He sinks deeper into the wooden chair and swallows. He blinks and realizes tears are in his eyes, dripping down his cheeks without him noticing. He wipes at them perfunctorily and blinks harder, trying to will them away.

“Does everyone else know?” He asks. His voice is rough and his throat clicks, dry from holding back sobs.

His mother shakes her head. “It sounded like only the Denbroughs knew, when she called me. I think she’s calling the rest now.”

Stan nods and closes his eyes. “Did—did they say how?”

“Stanley, you don’t want to hear about that.” His father says gruffly.

“I do,” Stan insists. “I need to know how—” the words catch in his throat. “I need to know how my best friend died.”

With a concerned look, his mother tells him. Pills, an overdose. Took an entire bottle of something from Mr. Tozier’s medicine cabinet. Didn’t leave a note. No foul play. Just a teenage boy who couldn’t take it.

When Stan sighs, a fresh flow of tears comes pouring out. He rocks forward and hides his face in his hands. He hadn’t even noticed; Richie had been _fine_ lately. They all had been. The nightmares were few and far between these days. Richie had even been able to taunt a clown at the local Derry fair, and Stan had been so _proud_.

He and Richie were supposed to talk that weekend. About college. About where they would go. About what they would do.

Stan cries and screams. One by one the other Losers show up. When Bill shows up, they sit together on the Uris family couch and cry, and scream, and reminisce together. Eddie is next, which figures. The three of them and Richie had always been closest.

The three of them have a while together before Ben arrives. He looks like he feels out of place, but his eyes are just as red-rimmed as the rest of them. They welcome him into the ever-growing puppy pile on the couch. Mike is next and he wordlessly joins them too, squeezing harder than the rest.

Bev can’t make it from Portland on such short notice, but she calls them. She calls the Uris’ home and Bill answers and holds out the phone so that all the rest of them, gathered in the kitchen, can hear her. They stay on the phone with her until their eyes hurt from crying and Mrs. Uris asks if they’d like dinner.

That night, everyone goes home. Stan watches all of his friends walk single-file out of his house, and his heart skips a beat when he realizes—yet again—that he won’t be seeing Richie leave. He won’t see Richie do anything again. He won’t see Richie beat his dad at Monopoly; he won’t see Richie rocking out to The Cure when they should both be sleeping. He won’t see Richie at school or the barrens or their treehouse. He won’t see Richie at all.

 

 

Twenty-seven years later, Stan realizes he won’t see Richie in Derry.

He hasn’t thought about Richie in a long time. He hasn’t thought about _any_ of the Losers in a long time. But Mike’s call had brought the memories flooding back, painfully so. He’s been nursing a headache since the call and his wife has been concerned all night.

He takes a bath the same night Mike calls, and thinks. He thinks about how Richie was found in his parents’ bathtub, foaming at the mouth with blue lips. He thinks about Richie’s laugh, how he can only barely recall it so many years later. He thinks about the funeral, and how it had rained on a perfectly sunny day in June. He thinks about the moment of silence at graduation, when Richie didn’t cross the stage to get his diploma.

A silver glint catches the corner of his eye, and Stan looks at his wife’s razors sitting on the edge of the bath. His thoughts grind to a halt and Stan stares at the razors intently. They’re the ones she uses to shave, he knows, and a voice that sounds suspiciously like Eddie reminds him, _that’s unsanitary_. Even so, his mind is racing with the possibilities now.

He doesn’t want to go back and face that fucking clown again. He doesn’t want to face the woman in the painting again. He doesn’t want to face Richie’s absence again.

He reaches for them briefly but before his fingertips can so much as graze the handle, Stan takes his hand back.

He doesn’t want to go back to Derry; he doesn’t want to think about the Losers or Richie or IT.

But he knows Richie would’ve. Richie would’ve gone back, because he knew it was the right thing to do. Because, despite what other people might try and say, Richie was brave.

_And now, I’m gonna have to kill this fucking clown._

Stan laughs to himself.

Richie was brave and selfless and he would be there, if he could.

Stan rises and starts to towel himself off. When he opens the bathroom door, it’s to Patricia standing uneasily on the other side.

“I’m fine,” he tells her. “Let’s go to bed, okay?”

 

She doesn’t seem especially surprised when she wakes up to Stan packing. He’s only bringing two suitcases, and she watches him pack with arms crossed over her chest. He can’t explain it to her—can’t explain why he has to go help these friends he’s never once mentioned in the years they’ve been married. Can’t explain that it’s his feelings for a dead friend that are driving him back. Definitely can’t explain Pennywise.

She walks him to the door, and he’s thankful she doesn’t look mad. She looks thoughtful with a little grin tugging at her lips. She looks like she wants an explanation but knows she won’t get one. All of the looks on her face, subtle and simple, are why Stan loves her. At the door of their home, he kisses her once.

“Be safe,” is all she tells him.

“I will,” he promises, even if he’s not so sure. He’s not scared, though. As he pulls out of the driveway and starts the trek to Derry, he doesn’t feel scared.

A little nervous, maybe—will he and Bill have the same easy friendship they had for so long? Is Eddie still a germaphobe?

He’s worried about facing Pennywise again—what will his fears look like decades later? Will they be able to defeat it for good this time?

He’s a lot of things—

But he’s not scared.


End file.
